all about the girl who came to stay
by sheriff stilinski
Summary: He knows that she's going to be in his hotel room the next morning, with movies and cheap liquor, because neither today or tomorrow have anything to do with Beav and that scares them most of all. MacDick


title: all about the girl who came to stay

summary: He knows that she's going to be in his hotel room the next morning with movies and cheap liquor, because neither today or tomorrow have anything to do with Beav and that scares them most of all. MacDick

Author's Note: Mac and Dick are the reason for my continued existence and faith in romance. Stay tuned for the many other stories I've closeted myself away writing. I was going to write more for this (that would probably get aggressively angsty) but HEY! These two deserve some happy times, am I right?

/

After all the shit in his life goes south, Dick's life becomes an endless loop of waking up, drinking, trying to find a girl to fuck, drinking when rejected, crying occasionally while jerking off, and then passing out.

Then, out of the blue, after Ronnie leaves Neptune and Logan goes on an impromptu "maybe I should hide from that Mafia family" vacation, Mac enters the equation — bottle of cheap vodka, bag of DVDs and video games, and takeout in hand. Dick has never been known to say no to a girl with booze, good taste in movies, a competitive streak when it comes to Super Smash Bros, and appetite for egg rolls, so he accepts her into his hotel room.

He tries kissing her the third night she crashes on his couch, because the maid service is due to change the sheets the next day and he might as well keep up appearances with the help (and come on, she's been here _three_ times), but she presses her hand into his instead.

A month later after she's become his bedmate (in the sort of innocent way that could ruin his reputation as a playboy), she kisses him. It's angry and needy and as much as he tries to lighten it — _they're alive, they're alive, they don't have to be broken_ — she overpowers everything with bruising hands and wild eyes that don't close when she kisses him. She claws his bare chest, plays with his belt buckle, and he takes off the soft cotton tee of his she's worn to bed for two nights straight.

He knows what she's doing and he knows it makes him feel all shades of shit to be this to her — a gene pool that reminds her of a ghost she thought she knew — but he takes her mouth's abuse and lays her under him until her hair spills on his pillow and her hips are rolling against his.

He's long stopped calling her Ghost World, but when he pulls away and looks at her under him, in this particular light, she looks like a phantom. Her eyes are lowered and dark, but he can still senses the animalistic pain from the noise that rips from her mouth when he lowers his open mouth onto her breast. Her fingers grasp the strands of his hair as she pulls him up and when he's close, she cups his face in her palms. They don't kiss for long seconds, just looking at each other, and Dick wants to ask her, _why today, why this time?_ And then, he counts back days in his head and his mouth goes dry.

He presses his mouth to her, and this time, she does not overpower him. He kisses her like placing a bandage on an open wound and rubs the exposed skin by her ears in circles.

He rolls off of her and lays next to her, keeping their skin close. He hears her broken sobs before they even come out of her throat. He knows what she must be thinking — knows she's making assumptions about Casablancas boys and their feelings toward her — but he also knows that she's going to be in his hotel room the next morning with movies and cheap liquor, because today nor tomorrow has nothing to do with Beav, and that scares them most of all.

Dick turns to her trembling form and knows that, months ago, she would've already been gone, out the door with red eyes and wrinkled clothes. But Mac is still here and she may be crying, but she's still here, and he's still here, and her mouth is wet and warm and opens and flexes his brain in ways that make him feel volatile.

"I bet I could beat you as Kirby," he mumbles to her, tracing the bend of her elbow, carefully avoiding her tears.

Mac stops crying, turns silent, and then wipes her eyes with the backs of her hands.

"You're on," she says, grinning.

She ends up beating his ass with every character available and when she beats him in a Kirby versus Kirby battle, she turns to him again.

"So, what do I get for winning this bet?" she mumbles, already snaking her hands down to the previously troublesome belt buckle.

His head malfunctions when she slips her fingers down the waistband of his underwear. And fleetingly, for the first time in his life, he understands why the Beav couldn't handle having such a beautiful woman underneath him.

They end up fucking on the couch and he swears, her eyes go purple when she comes, back arched— after him, because having her fingers all over him makes him feel like a virgin for the first time in five years. She pours them drinks when she pulls on her underwear. They're nude and seamless, like she's not wearing anything at all, which makes him harder than before and is the main reason for the stain on the rug he never explains to the manager.

He wakes up the next morning to freshly brewed coffee and an Italian take out menu with five different pastas circled. She comes that night with garlic bread and yells at him for not understanding that he was supposed to order the pasta and threatens to beat him with the baguette in her hand if he doesn't call, like, right now.

There's something that gets caught in his throat when she's hollering and waving her hands about, something throbbing in his head that he loves the way her hair swings, her toes curl, and her mouth crunches into positions that make everything else seem… less. He pushes her into the refrigerator and watches the anger drain from her face as he hitches her legs around his waist and rubs complex patterns onto her skin. Her mouth parts as he leans his forehead into hers and every part of him feels like this is it — this is what keeps people singing and coming together even though they know it's wrong, even if they know they're going to get hurt.

Her breath hitches when he leans his head into the curve of her neck and breathes hot air down the length of her spine. He gets half hard just pressed against her, hearing and feeling her heart beat escalate, trip, and fall.

"I really wanted you to get dinner," she mumbles into his ear, fingering the little hairs on his neck that stand up.

And when he comes up from her neck, laughing, she kisses him like it's second nature, like they've done this a million and three times, like it's muscle memory, like — like it's right to be making out with your dead boyfriend's brother in his kitchen after you've threatened to bludgeon him with greasy garlic bread.

They end up eating the bread and playing a drinking game to some shitty romance she knows every word to but would never admit. (She mouths the words on the mouth of the bottle when she takes a swig.) She falls asleep when they're three quarters through, head against his shoulder, bottle by her feet on the floor. She's wearing black ankle socks with stars on them and her fingers twitch in her sleep and everything about her makes his body numb, so he pops her legs onto the couch, pulls her warm body close into him, and falls asleep to the sounds of other people declaring their love.


End file.
